


Normal

by Dlvvanzor, Living_In_a_Fantasy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acting, Anal Sex, Arguing, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dlvvanzor/pseuds/Dlvvanzor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_In_a_Fantasy/pseuds/Living_In_a_Fantasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the heat of an argument, John tells Sherlock he should try being normal. It’s a comment he will quickly come to regret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Normal

"For the last bloody time!" Sherlock exploded, storming into the kitchen from the sitting room to get away from his infuriating lover, "No!"

"You don't take anything I say seriously!" John yelled, storming after him and coming to a stop in the middle of the kitchen.

He threw his arms into the air.  "I would, if you _ever_ said something worth taking seriously!"

John paced closed, voice rising with sarcasm. "Oh, right, we're back to this! Once again, I'm just the idiotic flatmate! How dare I even be in the same room as you?"

"Well you live here, too," he replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.  "I can hardly dictate your comings and goings through your own space."

"True, but you're the one who asked me to move in, so I guess you have to put up with all the idiotic things I say and do." He glared up at him. "Honestly, Sherlock, it's not that odd of a request."

Sherlock glared right back.  "I.  Don't.  Want to," he enunciated.  "Perhaps it's arbitrary for you, _John_ , but if the sofa moves, it throws off everything else!"

"How?   It's not like I'm even asking it to be moved much!"

"It's important!  Just leave it!"

"You don't know that it won't be better if we moved it. Why not _try_ it?" John demanded.

"No," he said, his tone making it very clear that he wasn't going to change his mind.  "It goes there.  That's where it goes.  Why is it so important that it moves?"

"Why is it so important that it stays?" The fact that they were arguing so vehemently over furniture didn't seem to register. "People move stuff around sometimes, especially when they get new furniture they have to fit into a room. It's normal."

"Oh, yes, and I've given you so much reason in the past to believe that I am normal," he seethed.

"Well maybe you could try it out once in a while!"

Sherlock snorted.  "What, being normal?"

John crossed his arms and met his eyes, a challenge clearly visible there. "Yes."

Sherlock stared at him for several long, silent moments.  Then he shook his head.  He glanced at the microwave clock.  "It's two in the morning," he said flatly.  "I feel like sleeping."

"Fine," John snapped.

Without another word, Sherlock went to his room, which they had been sharing, and with a final-sounding and intentional 'click,' locked it behind him.

John's jaw clenched and he climbed the stairs to his old room. It had been months since he slept there. He glared at the ceiling for a while longer before eventually managing to fall asleep.

* * *

 

John didn't sleep very well, but by the time he did go downstairs, Sherlock was already up. He wasn't looking forward to continuing their argument, but there was no point in putting it off. He sighed, then continued towards the kitchen, and stopped dead in the doorway.

The kitchen was completely free of experiments. The kitchen table was bare of chemicals and equipment, which John couldn't remember _ever_ happening. The table also contained a plate of eggs, which Sherlock was eating. Sherlock. Eating breakfast at a clean kitchen table. John wondered wildly if he was dreaming.

Sherlock smiled at him.  "Good morning, John."  He took another bite of egg.

"Morning?" It was more a question than a greeting.

Sherlock smiled again and gestured with his head at the stove, where another plate was being kept warm by a cover.  "Your breakfast is just there."

John stared at him then, very slowly, moved towards the stove to inspect it. "You made breakfast...?" he asked dubiously.

"Of course.  I was cooking for myself, so I made a bit extra for you.  Would have been rude otherwise."  He spread a hearty glob of jam on his toast and crunched into it.

Since when did Sherlock care about being rude? Still very confused, John took his breakfast and sat down, looking between Sherlock and the food before slowly starting to eat it.

"Long day at work today?" Sherlock asked pleasantly.

"Just a normal shift."

He hummed.  "Maybe we could go out to dinner tonight.  It's two years today, you know, since we met."

John looked up at him. "Is it really?"

"Mhm."  He smiled at him crookedly.  "You're going to be late," he pointed out.

John's eyes turned towards the clock and he stood up quickly. "Oh, you're right." He carried his dishes to the sink, talking as he got ready. "Dinner would be nice." He pulled on his coat and turned back around to face Sherlock, who had followed him to the sitting room. "I shouldn't be home late."

"Okay."  He pressed close and kissed John sweetly before pulling back.  "I shouldn't be late, either.  Just have a bit of shopping to do.  See you when you get home."

John stood in the doorway several more moments, then smiled. Maybe Sherlock had decided to just put the fight behind him, considering the day. And it would certainly explain the breakfast. Despite what people might think, Sherlock could be very sweet. "Alright, I'll see you tonight." He left. The morning had turned out a lot better than he'd expected.

* * *

 

John returned home on time, as predicted.  Sherlock was in John's old room and heard him arrive.  "Welcome home!" he called down.  "I was thinking dinner at 7?"  He came down the stairs in time to meet John at the foot of them.  He smiled.  "Maybe Angelo's?  Save some money."

John stepped forwards to peck Sherlock on the lips. "Angelo's sounds good. It _is_ where we had our first dinner together."

"That's true.  Sounds lovely, John.  I just want to finish this chapter..." he held up the novel he was reading to indicate it.  "It's pretty absorbing."

John raised an eyebrow at the choice but didn't comment. "Tea?"

"Mm, yes, I've already started the kettle so it should be almost ready."  He nodded.

John stared at him blankly until the kettle did, actually, go off. He hurried to the kitchen to finish the tea.

Sherlock followed him to the kitchen.  "What should I wear tonight?" he mused.  Then he chuckled a little.  "Just thought I'd ask.  We _are_ a gay couple, after all; we might as well conform to some of the stereotypes."

John handed Sherlock his tea. "Nothing wrong with what you normally wear. It's nice enough for an anniversary dinner, I'd think."

Sherlock beamed at him.  "Alright."  He took the tea.  "I'm just going to head back up- only a few more pages.  This Katniss character is surprisingly well-rounded."

John gaped at him. "I...okay." He sat down once Sherlock had left and drank his tea. It was one thing for Sherlock to be nice, but reading The Hunger Games was just...odd.

Sherlock returned half an hour later.  "A cliffhanger, sort of," he sighed.  "How frustrating."

"Right. How did you come across this series?" he asked slowly.

"Oh, everyone was talking about it a while back.  I'm a little embarrassed to be reading it, actually."  He chuckled.  "But I like to know what's going on."

John watched him for a long time before speaking. "I suppose it could be relevant...somehow."

"So, how was your day?" Sherlock asked intently.

"Fine," he said. "Nothing special. And yours?"

"Tolerably pleasant.  Did the shopping- incidentally, that's where I found my book- tidied up, read.  I need to get a job or I'm going to end up a kept man."

John stared at him, honestly at a loss.

"Well, we have a few hours before we have to go.  Would you like to do something?  Maybe leave early and hit the cinema before dinner?  Or would you rather just relax?"

"I'm not that picky, honestly. Your choice," John said eventually.

Sherlock paused to consider this.  "A film, then.  There's this one that looks funny.  It's the one that just came out?  Has that actor I like?  What's his name... Stephen..."

"There's an actor you _like_?"

"Well yes.  But I can't remember his name... Stephen, um..."

"Fry," he offered.

"Right!" he exclaimed.  He grinned at John.

John hadn't know Sherlock liked him. "Alright. We could look up this film, or just go?"

"Oh."  Sherlock frowned.  "I didn't think of that.  What do you think we should do?"

John really couldn’t help but stare.  Sherlock didn't usually look to John for his opinion _this_ much. "I suppose we might as well look it up first."

"Okay!"  He trotted over to his laptop, looking up the times proficiently.  "There's one soon.  If we leave now, we will have time to get popcorn."

That was possibly the most disturbing thing Sherlock had done all day. Not only had he not demanded John get the laptop, he'd walked farther to get his _own_. "Well...alright. Let's go then."

"Sounds great."  Sherlock put on his coat, wrapping his scarf around his neck.  He took John's hand and waited.  John, still incredibly confused, led them out.

* * *

 

Sherlock followed John into the flat, giggling about nothing in particular.  "Too much wine, possibly," he said.  "Just a bit."

"That is certainly possible," John agreed.

Sherlock closed the door behind them, then gently pressed John into it, kissing him long and slow.  "I think not enough that my judgment is compromised, though."  John kissed him back, wrapping his arms around him and tugging him close.  Sherlock rested his forearms lightly on his chest.  In a low voice, he said, "So take me to bed?"

God, he loved it when Sherlock used that voice. "Well," he said between kisses, "you did take me on a lovely date."

He laughed silkily.  "I do try to..." he looked him up and down, " _Please_ you."

John hummed and pulled Sherlock in for another kiss. "And I very much appreciate that. Bedroom?"

"Mhm."

John led them to their bedroom slowly, as he didn't much feel like separating himself from Sherlock's lips.  When they crossed the threshold, Sherlock pulled back with a luxurious smile.  He took John's hand and brought it to his shirt buttons.  John made fairly quick work of the shirt, letting it drop softly to the floor and running his hand down Sherlock's chest lightly. He leaned in to kiss him again.

Sherlock smiled into the kiss, holding John's face and keeping him close.  He ran his lips along John's jaw, arching when John's hands went to his trousers.  "Hmm, yes," he mumbled encouragingly.

John only left Sherlock's lips to pull off Sherlock's trousers properly, moving back in the moment he'd stepped out of them. "Want you," he murmured against his lips.

"Anything," he whispered, hands scrabbling at John's shirt, running his fingers along John's sides the way he knew John liked it.  "You can have anything."

John broke away just long enough to peel away his own shirt and trousers. Then there was lips and heat and skin, and like always, it amazed him slightly that he was allowed to do this with Sherlock. He backed them towards the bed, lowering Sherlock carefully and tracing a path down the other man's jaw and neck.

Sherlock stretched out when his back met the bed, putting himself on display and turning his head to give John the best view of and access to his neck.  Sherlock groaned his lover's name when John's teeth grazed a sensitive spot on his neck.

John's lips moved on, making their way down his chest until they reached the final barrier between him and Sherlock. He tugged on the pants lightly and looked up Sherlock.

Sherlock, who had picked up his head to watch John's progress down his body, nodded.  "Anything.  I'm yours."

John pulled them down, abandoning them at the foot of the bed. He looked up the bed at Sherlock then slowly lowered his head to take Sherlock in his mouth.

"Oh!" Sherlock cried out at the wet heat and his hips jerked before he could stop them.  "Sorry, sorry..." he panted.

John simply hummed, hands settling on Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock twisted his fingers in John's hair and gasped when he started to move.

John's hands held Sherlock's hips still as he moved, eventually pulling away and crawling up the bed. After all, he wanted to have Sherlock properly. He leaned down to press a tender kiss to Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock jerked his head away.

John paused, staring down at him in confusion. That was...very odd. Since when did Sherlock pull away from kissing during sex? It was something to add to the growing list of unusual things Sherlock had done today. He pulled back slightly to put some space between them, frowning. "Sherlock?"

Only a moment later, Sherlock lifted his head and gripped John's face, pulling him in for a soft kiss.  "Bad taste," he said soothingly.

Still, he hesitated. Sherlock had always made it known that he detested the taste, which was why getting a blowjob from Sherlock was rare, but he'd never pulled away like that before.

Sherlock kissed him sweeter and deeper.  "Sorry," he said softly.  He ran his hands down John's back, his nails scraping slowly against his skin.

And an apology seemed even more out of character. Still, his hips jerked involuntarily as Sherlock's fingers moved lower.

Sherlock moaned obscenely and he gripped at John's lower back, pulling their bodies together.

John huffed out a short groan at the contact. He could never get enough of this. Having Sherlock beneath him, or above him, with nothing between them, never failed to overwhelm him. He turned his head to kiss Sherlock again, pulling away only to pull off his own pants.

Now they were bare, and the friction was wonderful and Sherlock mouthed down John's throat and hissed at a particularly precise pair of thrusts.  It felt as good as always.  "Whatever you want..." he breathed.

John’s hand fumbled for the lube on their bedside table, slicking up his fingers and carefully pressing his first finger in. He watched Sherlock’s face as he stretched him, pulling back to scrape up more lube. He stroked his own cock quickly before lining himself up at Sherlock’s entrance.

Sherlock keened when John entered him, chanting his name like a prayer, arching up at the familiar stretch.  "JohnJohnJohnJohn..."  His fingers spasemed and tightened on John's back.

"Feel so good, Sherlock," he groaned, tilting his hips back and thrusting in again. He kept moving, picking up a steady rhythm.

"Yes, John, please..."

John's thrusts quickened, adjusting for a better angle. He was breathing heavily. The feeling of Sherlock, the heat and his voice and his movements...he got lost in it. He moaned, hand drifting to Sherlock's cock and stroking it slowly. "You're... _God_..."

"You're amazing," he panted.  "You're wonderful.  Please.  Make me..."

John's strokes quickened, trying to keep in time with his thrusts, but he was getting close and his coordination was suffering.

Sherlock noticed, and it was fine because he was too.  "John... I want you to... I want..."

He couldn't form a coherent thought when Sherlock got like this. His movements were nearly desperate. "You're incredible," he breathed. The heat was building and his strokes grew sloppy.

Then John hit the right spot in just the right way and Sherlock came, bearing down on John to make him follow, clinging like he'd fall off the planet if he didn't and still mumbling John's name like a prayer.

That was more than enough to send him over the edge too, and all he could manage was to moan Sherlock's name as the orgasm moved through him. Slowly coming back to himself, he pulled out and lowered himself besides Sherlock, putting an arm around him to tug him close.

Sherlock promptly curled up next to him, nuzzling next to his ear.  "You're so good, John," he whispered.  "You always make it so good, you know."

"Well it's you," he mumbled, letting his eyes slide closed for a moment and just focusing on the feeling of having Sherlock in his arms. "Want to make you feel good."

"Always do," he said, sighing deeply.  "I only hope I do the same for you."

"Course you do." He'd regained his breath enough to press a tired kiss to Sherlock's lips before laying down again. "Should clean up." However, the effort of moving seemed too great, especially with Sherlock so near.

"No."  He pressed closer to John.  "I want to wake up with the evidence all around us."

His lips quirked up slightly. He grasped for the blanket and dragged it up to cover them both.

Sherlock waited until John fell asleep.  When he did, he pulled away.  He fell asleep himself shortly thereafter.

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up first, the next morning.  He rubbed at his eyes.  Sleeping for eight hours was always rough on him, especially if he couldn't feel the warmth of John.  He looked at his bedmate.  He scooted over to him and placed a kiss on his lips to wake him.  "Good morning," he said gently.

Still half asleep, John rolled closer, burrowing against Sherlock's side. "Morning," he mumbled, not opening his eyes.

"Gonna go make breakfast," Sherlock said, nuzzling him.  "Come down when you're ready."

Those words took an embarrassingly long time to register, and by the time they did Sherlock was already gone. John got ready fairly quickly and found Sherlock in the kitchen.

Sherlock was wearing, of all things, an apron, cheerfully making eggs just like the day before, only this time there were beans and tomatoes as well.

"You're making breakfast," he said slowly.

He cracked an egg, then looked over at him and smiled.  "Mhm."

"Again."

"Mhm."

"Why?"

"Um..." he frowned in thought.  "Because it's breakfast time?"  Toast popped up out of the toaster and Sherlock magicked it onto a plate.

"Yes, but..." John trailed off, simply watching him. Sherlock making breakfast because of an anniversary was one thing, but to make it again on a normal day? That was very unusual, and it was sparking alarm bells in John's head. Sherlock's behavior the day before had been sweet at times, but also very strange. He'd done things that didn't make sense even in the context of their anniversary. John was getting the feeling now that something was wrong.

Sherlock looked at him curiously and plucked the tops off the tomatoes.

"You almost never cook breakfast. You rarely cook anything, really."

"Oh, I... is this your way of telling me I'm a bad cook?" he asked nervously, looking at the eggs evaluatively.

"No, I just thought..." He stepped into the kitchen fully. "I thought you cooking yesterday was just because it was special, is all. Because you don't cook regularly."

The eggs were done.  He removed them from the heat and took off his apron, folding it up and setting it on the counter.  He walked over to John and took both his hands, smiling at him.  "Yesterday _was_ a special day," he agreed sweetly.  Then, seemingly distracted, he drifted back to the stove and said, "I think I'll pick up Catching Fire today..."

John watched him for several moments. This was just...wrong. Off. Not Sherlock, and he felt like an idiot for not fully picking up on it yesterday. The anniversary could explain the food and the date, but it couldn't explain the book, or the other strange things Sherlock had done. "Maybe you could text Lestrade instead," he said finally. "It's been a while since we had a case. He did say he would look for some cold cases for you."

"Lestrade?  The DI who is always in the papers?"  Sherlock raised an eyebrow and let out a huff of a laugh.  "Why would he give me his cold cases?  And what would I do with them?"  He shook his head and returned to doling out the eggs onto two plates.

Very, _very_ Not Good. "Alright," he said, quickly following Sherlock. "What's going on?"

"Breakfast?  Breakfast is something that happens every day, John.  Well, in this country, at least.  I recently saw an ad on telly about children in Africa... horrible, really..."

"Sherlock." He tugged the plates from Sherlock's hands and shoved them onto the counter. "Why are you acting so strange?"

Sherlock's voice, face, and stance went instantly and entirely cold.  "I think you'll find I'm acting perfectly normally, in fact."

John sucked in a long, slow, breath. God, how hadn't he _noticed_? "Sherlock..."

"Look.  I even moved the sofa."  Violently, he threw the dish towel he'd been holding the hot pan with at the sink, then he turned a deadly glare on John and he didn't move.

"God, Sherlock." He had no idea what to say. How hadn't he noticed? Why had he let something as simple as the word 'anniversary' make him ignore how _wrong_ Sherlock had been acting. "I didn't...I didn't _mean_ that."

"Didn't you?" he challenged.  "You were happy yesterday.  Happier than I'd seen you in a long time."

He shook his head in denial. "I thought it was because of the day, not because you were trying to be normal."

"Not trying," he snapped, "succeeding overwhelmingly.  How did you like having a housewife, John?  Did you find it more suitable than a mad and maddening flatmate-turned-lover?  Did you like the _apron_?"  He snatched it off the counter and threw it to the floor.  "Was that a nice touch?  How about complete sub-ordinance in bed and forgetting names and waiting for you to solve my problems and reading mind-numbing literature?"  His voice rose until he was shouting.  "And _oh_ I wonder if she'll end up with Gale or Peeta!"

The sheer rage was almost enough to make John take a few steps backwards. "No, I..." He didn't even know where to start. He didn't know what he could say. He should have questioned Sherlock's behavior yesterday. He should have tried to talk about their argument, because by pushing it aside he'd obviously made things so much worse. "I don't...that's not what I want from you."

"Then what _do_ you want?!" he demanded.  "I infuriate you as myself.  I horrify you as someone else.  There is literally no way I can please you!"

"You, I just want you to be _you_ ," he said quickly. "Sure, you irritate me sometimes. And I'm sure I irritate you, right? So we argue. But that doesn't mean either of us actually wants the other to change."

"Evidently I irritate you significantly more than you irritate me," he said coldly.

"No, I didn't mean it. I was frustrated, and I'm sorry for saying it. Because I didn't mean it. I don't want...this." He gestured at the breakfast. "I don't want you to turn into something you're not."

Sherlock gave him a long and very hard look.  No, he didn't.  Not really.  If he wanted Sherlock the way he was, he wouldn't constantly try to direct his behavior, he wouldn't have enjoyed him giggly and pretending to be tipsy, he wouldn't have taken twenty-four hours to notice the difference.  Sherlock turned and walked away.

John scrambled after him. "Sherlock, just wait. I said something stupid and untrue in the middle of an argument. People do that sometimes."

Sherlock whorled around just as he made it to their bedroom door.  "When people are angry, they say what they mean," he said simply.  He entered the room.  As he closed the door, he said, "Don't follow me, please."

"Sherlock." He stared at the shut door. He'd fucked up. He'd fucked up really, really badly. First by saying it at all, and then again by not understanding and letting Sherlock act that way for a whole day. He wanted to go in but didn't, instead leaning back against the door and slowly sliding down until he was sitting against it. He didn't say anything for a while. When he did, his voice was quieter, but loud enough to carry into the bedroom. "I love you, Sherlock. I wouldn't be with you if I didn't."

Silence.

"If I really wanted normal, I'd still be dating those women. I don't want that. I just want you." He rested his head back against the door heavily. When Sherlock was still quiet, he continued. "I love so much about you. Like your mind. I've loved your mind since the first day we met."

He stared forward, speaking again when it was obvious Sherlock still wasn't speaking. "I love how you don't care what other people think. It's admirable that you can listen to that crap from Anderson and Donovan all the time and still be above it." A pause. "I love how dedicated you are, to your work and your experiments. You'll continue working until you get the results you need. And I do love your stubbornness, because it would get so boring if we agreed about everything."

Still nothing.

"I love how romantic you can be, even though you claimed to be a sociopath. That's why the breakfast and the date wasn't exactly...surprising, I guess. Because I know you'd do that for me if it was for something special. And I love that you consider me special, and I wonder every day how that's possible." He stared down at the floor. Sherlock was so important, and somehow he'd managed to mess it all up. "I love how you try and cheer me up when I've had a bad day, and how you curl up to me when we go to bed. I love that you'll neglect your own needs while on a case but still insist I eat and sleep because you worry. I love the way you expect me to make us both tea when I get home, because it's domestic and routine and it means that we're solid."

Another pause, longer this time. "And I love that you love me. That even though I'm an idiot, you still chose to be with me."

Sherlock stared at the closed door.  The rage had dissipated a bit.  John was saying nice things.

John didn't want to lose him, especially because of something so stupid. Something he didn't mean. "I love sitting on the sofa, watching Doctor Who with you. And I love that you always bring home caramel corn if you know we're planning to watch it. I also love watching films with you, because I know you don't care for them. You usually just want to cuddle on the sofa with me. And I really love how much you like having your hair touched. I'm glad that I can do something like that for you, that it makes you happy." He paused again before speaking. "I love the way you kiss me, like you never want to stop. I've never felt so wanted before. I love that you want me, and how much you trust me. Because I would never try to purposefully hurt you. And I'm sorry that I have. I love so much about you, Sherlock. And you changing, really changing, would take away from all of that. I just...I love you for _you_."

Sherlock was standing by the door by the end of John's speech, listening quietly.  He didn't want to cave this easily, but John sounded really upset.  He sounded sincere and sad and when he'd talked about touching Sherlock's hair he'd had a soft smile in his voice and when he'd talked about kissing he'd sounded awed and breathless.  And all the things he'd listed, outside of the glowing praise of his intellect of course, were little things.  Small aspects of him that John noticed, loved, considered precious.  They were all the kinds of things Sherlock noticed about John.  So, quietly but loudly enough for John to hear, Sherlock said, "I am opening the door" to give him a chance to move off it.

John stood, backing away a few paces and watching the door.

Sherlock exited, closing it behind him, and looked at John silently.

John didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure if more words would make things worse or better. So he just stood there quietly, meeting Sherlock's eyes.

"I love you," he said simply, firmly.  "Tell me you love me."

"I love you," he said, hoping that Sherlock could see and hear how true the words were.

He watched him for a moment longer.  Then he nodded.  He took a step closer to John, hesitantly reaching for his hand, and pulled him close.  "You know that I only watch films with you as an excuse to be close?" he asked quietly.

John instantly wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held on tightly. "Yes. You hate films. You think they're pointless and ridiculous, or if they have a plot that's at least a bit interesting, you can figure it out less than halfway through."

Sherlock smiled.  "I didn't realize you knew."

"I've noticed the way you open your mouth to say something then stop yourself so you don't tell me the ending."

He chuckled lowly.  John was right, of course.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's temple.  "It's fine."  He pulled back a bit to look at him.  "My... exact method of expressing my discontent might have been unnecessary," he said slowly.

"You were upset," he said simply.

He couldn't argue with that.  He touched John's face lightly.

"I realized something was off," he said, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. "But I really did think it was because of that day. I should have said something."

"I tried to delete The Hunger Games, but it won't go," Sherlock said seriously.

"I'm surprised you actually managed to read through it."

"I got through University, didn't I?" he joked.

"True." He pulled Sherlock a bit closer.

Sherlock put his chin on John's head.

  They stood there in silence for several minutes before John, hesitantly, spoke up. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Last night," he said slowly, pulling back, "you were still angry with me."

"Yes."

"And when we got home, we...well...when I went in to kiss you, you backed away."

"Well," he said, shifting, "Yes."

"Because you didn't want to."

"I always want you," Sherlock disagreed weakly.  He saw where this was going.

John shook his head lightly. "Not last night. You didn't want to be near me at all, probably. But since you were acting that way, and you not wanting to sleep with me would have really tipped me off..." He trailed off. He really didn't want to say the words.

"I did something wrong," Sherlock said firmly.  "You didn't do anything.  Let's not make this a thing."

John was quiet. 

"You can't take blame for that.  You didn't know, and I planned it in advance."

"Well next time you're angry just... don't, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, squeezed him.  "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," John said. "About all of it."

"Perhaps," he said, trying to let some humor into his voice, even though he felt rubbed raw and, frankly, fried by all the emotions involved in the last two days, "we should try this 'communication' thing I've heard so much about."

That got a small, tired smile out of him and he nodded. "Maybe."

Sherlock smiled a little bit too.  "So.  Maybe a film?"

"At home, right?"

"Yes," he said firmly.

"Sounds good," he said, relaxing slightly. "You pick."

Sherlock tugged him in closer.  "Romantic comedy?' he teased.

John let him, the smile coming easier now. "That sounds like just our type of movie."

"Mm-mm.  Comedy of errors."

"Well, before we watch anything," John said, moving away from Sherlock to stand by the sofa, "we should move this back to where it belongs."

He followed, not wanting to be that far away from John.  "Or we could burn it."

John contemplated the sofa. "Where would we have sex?"

"Everywhere else," he said cheerfully.

"We use the sofa 60% of the time."

"You did the math?" Sherlock asked, fascinated, turning him around to press into him.

John tilted his head back to kiss him lightly. "More an average, than anything."

"But, I like that," he said, lowering his voice.  "And I've been utterly convinced by your statistical analysis that we cannot possibly burn, destroy, or in any way maim the sofa."

"Good," John said, his own voice lowering slightly in response to Sherlock's. "I really enjoy having sex on the sofa."

"We just had a fight.  A big one.  So, Master Statistician, what percentage of the time do we have make-up sex on the sofa as opposed to some other surface?"

John considered this. "I'd say about 50% of the time."

"And how many times would we have to have sex on the sofa to raise that percentage to at least sixty?" He placed his palm on John's back and drew him in.

John's hands settled lightly on Sherlock's hips. "A good three, I'd say."

Sherlock chuckled.  "Never one for math, were you," he said, running his hand up John's back.

"I was trying to give us a number that we could possibly accomplish over the course of today," John told him.

"Three it is," Sherlock agreed instantly.

John grinned and drew Sherlock in for a slow kiss. "Shall we start now, or later?"

"Now, definitely now."

"Now," Sherlock said, pulling him down onto the sofa to kiss him deeply.  "Definitely now."


End file.
